‘Hey, hey. You’re not supposed to cry,’ he says taking me in his arms and kissing my tear tracks.
It so beautifully romantic and sweet. I look up at him, my heart bursting. No one has ever done anything so lovely for me. There’s a planet-sized lump in my throat and I really can’t say a word.
He takes my hand and leads me to the chair, which is when I notice the bottle of wine in an icepack sleeve.
‘I’m afraid I’ve pretty much blown our budget,’ he says apologetically. ‘But it’s your birthday.’
I’d like to tell him I forgive him but I’ll start blubbing again.
He hands over a folded sheet of A4 paper. On the front there’s a drawing of two people. I study them for a second and realise it’s me and Tom. It’s really very good. Inside the folded sheet of paper, it reads, ‘Happy 30th Birthday Lydia’.
‘Sorry it’s home-made, but I wanted to keep the budget for other things.’
He pours us each a glass of wine, handing one to me and then lifts his to chink against it. ‘To you. Happy Birthday, Lydia.’
My hands are shaking when I lift my glass. I think I might cry again. This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.
‘Now open your presents,’ he demands.
‘You didn’t need to get me presents,’ I say although I’m completely charmed. ‘But it’s so sweet that you have.’ I give him a starry, watery smile. ‘Oh Tom, thank you.’
His smile is so sweet. ‘It’s really not that much. Don’t get too excited. Honestly. Remember I didn’t have much money.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ I tell him, picking up the first parcel. ‘As they always say, it’s the thought that counts.’
‘Mmm,’ he mutters. ‘But they don’t always mean it.’
‘Well, I do,’ I say as severely as I can when I’m more excited than I can ever remember. Unable to savour the anticipation, I tear the newsprint wrapping paper from the first parcel, to reveal a large bar of Cadbury chocolate.
‘Chocolate!’ I squeal, because who doesn’t love a giant-sized bar. ‘Thank you.’ I plant a smacking kiss on his mouth. ‘If you’re good, I might share it with you later. Although you’ll have to be very good,’ I say playfully, ‘because I do love my chocolate.’
‘No!’ he says with a teasing smile. ‘I’d never have guessed.’
‘What gave it away?’ I ask, laughing.
‘It might have been the I’m-about-to-have-a-spiritual-experience-here look on your face before you tucked into your Nutella on toast, or maybe you were just constipated.’
‘Tom!’ I remonstrate although I giggle at the face he pulls to demonstrate.
The next package is much smaller and he’s watching me as I open it. This time I take more care, intrigued as to what it might be. A pair of purple hair bobbles with balls pop out, bouncing on to the table with a gentle clatter. ‘Cute,’ I say, picking them up and smiling because they are cute and I’m so going to wear them tomorrow.
‘I notice sometimes you wear your hair in a ponytail. It suits you.’
Cute and thoughtful. My heart turns into a gooey mess as I vow I’m never going to part with them.
The last present is a small, oddly-shaped package that contains the ugliest fridge magnet I’ve ever seen, a slightly deformed woolly sheep standing on a tussock with the words ‘Lake District’ in neon orange letters.
‘You always have to have a fridge magnet from wherever you’ve visited,’ explains Tom earnestly, catching his lip between his teeth. ‘Sorry –’ his eyes crinkle in apology ‘– I know it’s a bit damaged but the woman in the gift shop section said I could have it for 50p.’
I run my fingers over the shaggy edge of the sheep’s back, studying the chip where one of its ears is missing. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I say, and I mean it. While it might be a bit battered, it will always remind me of being here. Tom didn’t have to buy me anything, but he has, and also found things that have meaning. I’m so touched, I choke up and can hardly speak.
‘It’s a bit crap, really,’ he says, pulling another apologetic, slightly rueful face.
‘No! No, it isn’t.’ I give him a teary smile. ‘Don’t you dare slag off Shaun. He’s lovely. And thoughtful. And you didn’t have to.’
‘Shaun, eh?’
‘I prefer Cyril – he looks like a Cyril – but Shaun is alliterative.’ I’m babbling to hide my elation. I genuinely feel spoiled … loved, even. Although of course Tom doesn’t love me … but he must like me to have bothered. Don’t get carried away, Lydia, I tell myself. It doesn’t mean anything.
‘Now are you ready for your Cordon Bleu extravaganza?’ I’m intrigued as there are some seriously lovely smells coming from the oven but no sign of much cooking apart from the solitary pan on the stove.
He leaves the table and moves to the kitchen area, switches on the kettle and as soon as the water boils, pours it into the pan and switches on one of the electric burners on the hob.
I sip my wine and watch him as he moves around the kitchen, totally at ease. My hand brushes the birthday card on the table as I put my glass down and I study the well-drawn figures. It’s another piece of who Tom Dereborn is. He’s talented with a pencil, as he’s managed to capture us perfectly. It’s the two of us drinking coffee, leaning on the wall outside the derelict cottage. I remember that morning so clearly, the brilliance of the sunshine bringing light after a long, dark night. Being with Tom in this cottage feels a bit like that. Isolated from everyone else, it feels as if the two of us can be who we really are, without any outside constraints or expectations.
After the most delicious tray-baked chicken and potatoes with frozen peas, Tom clears up.
‘You need to close your eyes,’ he says.
What more can he do to surprise me? I can hear him rustling about and then a match strike.
Then I hear the chink of china on the place mat as he sets a plate in front of me.
‘Okay, open them.’
I do. In front of me there’s a pink fondant fancy with a solitary blue candle stuck in the top.
